Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.
Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet,
To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?—
Make way to lay them by their brethren.—
[The tomb is opened.]
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,
And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars!
O sacred receptacle of my joys,
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,
How many sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more!
LUCIUS.
Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh
Before this earthy prison of their bones;
That so the shadows be not unappeas’d,
Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth.
TITUS.
I give him you,—the noblest that survives,
The eldest son of this distressed queen.
TAMORA.
Stay, Roman brethen!—Gracious conqueror,
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,
A mother’s tears in passion for her son:
And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,
O, think my son to be as dear to me!
Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome,
To beautify thy triumphs and return,
Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;
But must my sons be slaughter’d in the streets
For valiant doings in their country’s cause?
O, if to fight for king and common weal
Were piety in thine, it is in these.
Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood:
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Draw near them, then, in being merciful:
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge:
Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son.
TITUS.
Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.
These are their brethren, whom your Goths beheld
Alive and dead; and for their brethren slain
Religiously they ask a sacrifice:
To this your son is mark’d; and die he must,
To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.
LUCIUS.
Away with him! and make a fire straight;
And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,
Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consum’d.
[Exeunt LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, and MUTIUS with ALARBUS.]
TAMORA.
O cruel, irreligious piety!
CHIRON.
Was ever Scythia half so barbarous!
DEMETRIUS.
Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus goes to rest; and we survive
To tremble under Titus’ threatening look.
Then, madam, stand resolv’d; but hope withal
The selfsame gods that arm’d the Queen of Troy
With opportunity of sharp revenge
Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,
May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths,—
When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen,—
To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.
[Re-enter LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS,and MUTIUS, with their swords bloody.]
LUCIUS.
See, lord and father, how we have perform’d
Our Roman rites: Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d,
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,
Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky.
Remaineth naught but to inter our brethren,
And with loud ‘larums welcome them to Rome.
TITUS.
Let it be so, and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewell to their souls.
[Trumpets sounded and the coffin laid in the tomb.]
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons;
Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned grudges; here are no storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep:
[Enter LAVINIA.]
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!
LAVINIA.
In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;
My noble lord and father, live in fame!
Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears
I render for my brethren’s obsequies;
And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy
Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome;
O, bless me here with thy victorious hand,
Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud!
TITUS.
Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv’d
The cordial of mine age to glad my heart!—
Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days,
And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise!
[Enter, below, MARCUS ANDRONICUS and Tribunes; re-enter
SATURNINUS, BASSIANUS, and Attendants.]
MARCUS.
Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!
TITUS.
Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.
MARCUS.
And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,
You that survive and you that sleep in fame!
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,
That in your country’s service drew your swords:
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp
That hath aspir’d to Solon’s happiness
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed.—
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been,
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,
This palliament of white and spotless hue;
And name thee in